Down With The Sickness
by snarechan
Summary: Russia contemplates about everything and nothing, while the world keeps turning and matters change.


Down With The Sickness

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Russia/America  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Romance/Angst  
**Warning(s)**: None  
**Status**: One-shot, complete  
**Summary**: Russia contemplates about everything and nothing, while the world keeps turning and matters change.

**Notes**: For the first time ever I saw a fanart and was hit with the urge to write a story inspired by the piece..._and actually accomplished it._ Based on one of the CMC Event prompts over at the livejournal community russiamerica, "Quarantine" by stalkingcorn is friggin' amazing you guys. Go check out my profile for the link and shower the artist with love before reading this. I can wait. /twiddles thumbs

This is posted with permission from the artist and beta read by Keppiehed. Thank you, peeps!

**Disclaimer**: I dun own Axis Powers Hetalia; wish I did like everyone else. They should put APH in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

The world had not ended, but it was no better for surviving.

Russia determined that every day at this exact time, the trek below ground was too tedious and left him with not much else to do save think and reminisce. Grey metal walls went unnoticed as he receded into his thoughts; the way was so ingrained in him that he needn't pay attention to his surroundings.

Just as the trail was set, so was his mind's wanderings, taking the same steps and always leading to the same conclusions: that this war-ravaged planet was desolate and cold. Like so much else, Russia was accustomed to such things. Living – a_lways continuing to live_ – in harsh conditions was what he did best. Where empires fell and civilizations crumbled, he did not; oftentimes, preservation was all he understood how to accomplish.

At the end of his journey was a steel vault door. The mechanisms for the lock were undone and programmed to let people through, and Russia did not hesitate to enter the room. There was more often than not someone present – once it was France, who drank his wine and the other man's, as well. England, too, who came sparingly to read his stories aloud over tea, needing it to steady his nerves. Though Russia had only spotted him once, he was aware of Japan making several visits. He played music and his video games, the glow from the cracked, ancient PlayStation Portable screen reflecting off equipment and glass as he angled the device toward his company to follow along.

Today was Canada, quiet and tucked against the tank to be almost hidden. The nation jumped as he heard Russia's boots on the hard floor and uncurled from his hunched position to offer a curt nod of greeting, which he returned. The both of them had a routine, accustomed as they were to seeing one another so often. Canada visited the most and it was inevitable that their paths would cross. Russia saw to it that he came day after day, no matter the circumstances, when the meetings and trials and recovery efforts weren't demanding his attendance.

They did not exchange pleasantries, and Canada left with a single backwards glance to Russia – not that he cared what sort of threatening or pitying look he received – and toward the area he had sat vigilant by for the past three hours. His gaze lingered there, hopeful, but it did not last, and neither did his presence. Russia was now alone – with this dreary room, with his thoughts, and with…

For the first time since he'd walked into the space, he lifted his head and stared at America, who was floating inside of a clear tube. Wires penetrated his skin and connected to electronics that monitored vital signs and forced his body to function. There were no scars or open lacerations from combat. This conflict had been different – this _era_ was different – and no one had gone unscathed; they'd just suffered in new and terrible ways.

Russia approached the tank with controlled, steady footsteps, until he was standing a breath away from the container. This is what he would do with his time. He would stand motionless and observe, not saying a word like he had in the beginning of his visits. The insults had come effortlessly then, as had the demands and curses, but those had made him tired, worn him out early. He had hoped that because they'd spurred America on before, perhaps they would again. At one time, he could talk to the American with unrivaled skill and made a deadly play with veiled threats or challenges, but such talent was worthless when Russia's opponent could not respond.

They complimented one another too well.

He placed his hand, palm flat, against the exterior and waited like all the rest who stayed. Russia was _old_, in his bones and his emotions, and had learned through difficult trials to be patient. It was painful, however, and a lesson that he felt he'd unnecessarily had to endure again and again, because he understood that no matter how often he wished (_wake up, wake up, wake up_), the passage of time was its own judge. It moved as it willed, the desires of men and their nations having no influence. So he practiced and went through the motions, never sure if—

Movement.

His eyes flickered and concentrated on the floor, where Russia's sight had fallen when he'd pressed his forehead against the glass. He'd gotten lost somewhere in his mind, but he was still attuned to his environment to such a degree that when America shifted – _America shifted_ – he caught the action in the fleeting moment that it happened. To Russia's side, a monitor beeped as it hadn't in ages, and then a second time, until charts and diagrams were sprouting up across all the screens, lights turning on to alert viewers of activity.

Russia's breath hitched as he lifted his head, face still pressed against the tank and smearing tears he hadn't realized were falling across the surface. He stared into America's open eyes.

Distantly, he recalled that he should send for the team of scientists and doctors that tended this place, maybe call for one of the other nations, but he didn't move. Russia _couldn't_. He mouthed America's name, fogging the glass, then he swept an arm across it since it blocked his view. The colored liquid turned America's skin sickly, his blond hair mustard, but when his eyes went from slits to wide-open, it didn't matter what he looked like. He was awake and he was beautiful.

America twitched his fingers, his right palm over Russia's left, the one he'd pressed flush against the glass. He watched, transfixed, as they scraped and tapped. Through the thick tank, no sound could be deciphered, nor vibrations felt, but the way America's nails brushed the interior – short, short, long, in varying patterns – it dawned on him that he was using Morse code. He memorized the order and translated the English words to Russian, lips moving of their own accord to recite the letters. When he was finished, America drifted off again, energy spent and receding back into recovery. The message, in its simplicity, had Russia crying again – this time, for all the right reasons.

-Fin-


End file.
